"I half suspect this is a highwayman," thought the Jew; "he's so ready with his cash. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. There was none.
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