On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. They traveled to distant places, had an apartment in Constantinople and a villa in Paris. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it.
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