The woman I wanted was another man's wife. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Mr. ” “Have you been getting enough sleep lately, Martin?” He almost tripped. It is no crime, none at all.
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