"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him.
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