‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. Above the housetops it was different. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. He was painfully in earnest, too. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTMzLjExMi45MCAtIDI4LTA2LTIwMjQgMTQ6MTI6MTEgLSA5NjYyMDU4Mw==
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