Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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