The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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