I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. She had seen for herself right up in the bedroom window with her binoculars when Joanie was gone shopping one night, right with her own eyes. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. ‘I knowed he were a wrong ’un, but that. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. I was the last on board.
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