The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh. “Let me help you,” he begged. The hard work will be his, until we yank this young fellow back from the brink. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have.
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