” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. ‘Very. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. The thought of beauty became an obsession.
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