Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. “What did it matter?” she cried. The cork came out with a loud pop, and Anna could not help wondering how it must sound to the patient little crowd outside. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you.
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