“Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. “My God!” he said again. ‘Not where we’re going. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. " "Murdered!" ejaculated Winifred.
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