. ’ He sighed, spread his hands quite in her own manner, and fluttered his lashes. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning.
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