"It is," replied Sheppard. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. " "But I never told you how the natives fished. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously.
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