“It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. I don’t conceal it. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. ” “The explanation seems to me to be reasonably simple,” Annabel said coldly.
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