“He says you are frigid, Madame. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Anna sprang lightly away across the street. '—'They can't,' says I. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again.
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