“Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. “The man alone could supply any, and if he recovers sufficiently to say anything, what he would say would exonerate you. What is it that you wish from me? You would like to arrest me for spying? Very well, arrest me.
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