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The profligates were still at the table, and there were fresh bottles of wine. They were laughing and talking. In all, not more than fifteen minutes had elapsed since Breitmann's departure. M. Ferraud stationed him by the window and kept a hand lightly upon his arm, as one might place a finger on a pulse. Of what were they talking? Ostend. The ballet-dancers. The races in May.
"He had excellent reasons. He's a secret agent, and has the idea that Breitmann wants to go into France and make an emperor of himself." "Do men dream of such things to-day, let alone try to enact them?" incredulously. "Breitmann's an example." "Are you taking his part?" "No, damn him! May I ask you a pertinent question?" "Yes." "Did he know Miss von Mitter very well in Munich?" "He did."
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