They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. I’ll need you to go back to the barracks and fetch more men up to town. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. Now, however, as Gerald watched them, their heads were together and they were murmuring in French. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must.
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