Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. ” “Would you mind telling me,” Anna asked, “how long I knew you in Paris?” He looked at her sideways. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. It’s no good hiding it any more.
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