No, don’t let me call myself that. While he was thus occupied, Thames, prompted by an unaccountable feeling of curiosity, took up the penknife which the other had just used, and examined the haft. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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