He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. Well, this was the side of the world where things like that happened. The other individual, who was a little in advance, was concealed from the stranger's view. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. They stood back together and stared at it. “Quite particularly nice,” said her aunt.
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