Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered.
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