" "What kind?" "Dickens, Hugo. I told them lies. And Mother trusted him. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. ‘Well, I thought as how someone in the house in Paddington might see me hanging about outside like. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply.
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