The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. She was to be a Corsair’s Bride. He had almost forced himself upon her one night after a particularly bloody raid of a thatched cottage. This year—I’ve got it badly. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down.
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