Piano wire, stained with black rust from the horrible deeds she had committed. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. I suppose that shocks one’s ideas.
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