” She peered at him through the semi-blackness. The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. ” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart.
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