He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire.
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