“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her.
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