In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. D. . ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found.
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