“You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Shari would know what to do, but Shari was out with her friend Lisa.
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