No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. .
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