His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Paris is not the place for two young girls. She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. "She is my lawful wife. A moment afterwards, the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner.
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