They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. “All your dreadful scientific things?” he said, with a smile that Miss Klegg thought extraordinarily kindly. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. It probably still wouldn’t help. ‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. He has three days to live. "You will before I'm done with you.
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