“No,” she answered, reluctantly. She drew a breath, and sighed it out. At least I can’t talk to them. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. “I believe it is. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. Will you let your servant call me a hansom,” she continued, opening the door before he could reach her side.
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