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"No offence, I hope, my dear Mrs. Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. ” “This,” Anna declared, as she sipped her wine and looked around her, “reminds me more of Paris than any place I have yet seen. His vicious abusiveness vanished. " He opened his eyes again.
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