The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image. “Was I that bad?” He asked. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears.
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