He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. I had left Paris. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. He seemed to be about to move toward her.
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