On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again.
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