The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. ’ There was a pause.
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