You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. The Ragged Edge. ” “Of course,” he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, “I could go away even now. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. . But he wrote on.
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