The woman shrugged her shoulders. \"It's getting late John. . “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. The silence grew unbearable, so she asked, \"What is your surname, John?\" \"My surname? You mean my last name?\" \"Yes. " "Could I credit your wild story, I might do so," returned Thames, with a look of perplexity.
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