“How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. ” They entered the place, a pleasant little café of the sort to be met with in the outlying parts of Paris. The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees.
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