He walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. Mother! do you know what you do? Would you sell yourself to this fiend?" "I would sell myself, body and soul, to save you," rejoined his mother, bursting from his grasp. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. The manager tells me that you are an American.
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