The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her.
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