Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place.
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