He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. ” So they went this time to the Rococo, in Germain Street, and up-stairs to a landing upon which stood a bald-headed waiter with whiskers like a French admiral and discretion beyond all limits in his manner. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. "It looks as though, we should go together," he said, pulling her toward him. "Think not to deceive me, monster.
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