He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. Mr. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. Anna looked at her, startled. As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard. .
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