“I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. The man looked hard at him. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua.
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