"Whist!" exclaimed Terence; "he elevates his glim. Think of those days in Paris. Enschede halted. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away.
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