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middle class who had escaped to Paris with their roubles and jewels during the revolution. "They expect each day to see the government fall and to return to their property and their privileges," he added. 
     
I went to Brentano's in Paris with Sergey because he was reluctant to accept my books until he was sure he could not buy his own. None of my titles were to be found, but I walked along the shelves selecting others by the same writers. In the end, "because my wife will be happy," he did accept my books. He brought me flowers that afternoon and made a little speech. "I have not before given flowers to a woman other than my wife." I was sitting by a window sewing the rip in the hem of my brass-colored dress. This feminine pursuit was too much for a man a year away from home; he leaned over and drew me up and kissed me hard on the mouth. Then he blushed furiously and started to apologize. 
     
I laughed it away. I was tired of guilt.
     
The charge for the hotel room was modest, but I saw that if I was to stay in Paris even until summer I must move soon. Sergey introduced me to the pneumatique, the French version of the telegram; I sent one to [[strikethrough]] Bob Sage the morning after I arrived [[/strikethrough]] Bob Geoff's friend on the second day. He telephoned me that evening. The Chicago Tribune was a morning paper and he was then on his way to work. He would pick me up around noon the next afternoon and help me find a hotel.
 
Bob was a tall, lean handsome young man, with eyes as close to violet color as I have ever senn. Heavy black eye lashes shaded them. But his black-pasted down hair was surprisingly close to the John Held, Jr.