She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. “You remind me of the story which they tell against us over here, you know—of the Englishman who refused to be saved from drowning because he was unacquainted with his rescuer. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. I don’t love you. "Constance—or, rather, Mrs.
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