They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall.
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