Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. You never can tell. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast.
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