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. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from.
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