The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. This is altogether insupportable. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. He brought his mother to call, and as you know the Countess goes scarcely anywhere. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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