They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. On the left there were doors communicating with the King's Bench Ward and the Stone Ward, two large holds on the Master Debtors' side. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. Reverse psychology or something, it’s like she was trying to draw him nearer by pushing him away. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew.
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