“Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. I love the soles of your feet. It is putting all my dreams out of joint. He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. I am not French in the least.
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