There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. I hope we may never find her again.
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