They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. "Is it wrong, then, to surrender to good impulses?" "In the present instance, yes. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. ‘What else do you expect? It’s the penalty you pay for marrying an Englishman. She used to play violin, you know.
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