Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side. “Even if he lives here you may go all your life and never come face to face with him again. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. It’s a lake among precipices, and there is a little inn where we can stay, and sit and eat our dinner at a pleasant table that looks upon the lake. Mere hangers on. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears.
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