Paris is not the place for two young girls. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. ‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. I know the Dutch. ‘You think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham.
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