But one must disguise oneself. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. The other was to go into business—into a photographer’s reception-room, for example, or a costumer’s or hat-shop. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. “Forgive me,” he said. "I mean to have no one but yourself in it.
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