It’s a mismatch. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. It now occurred to him that she had always been fully dressed. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. "You'll never return. And I do not know you.
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