As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child.
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