The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. E. . She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. The inn was a military haunt. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers.
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