Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace. ‘And me, I am a lady. ’ ‘Yes, but what is it, Jacques?’ demanded the lady.
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