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PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES
were before long sympathetically sea-sick. It was dark by the time we reached Boulogne, and the railway journey seemed as though it would never end, though I suppose we slept a little.
CALDERON.
We got to Paris at some frightfully early hour, drove to the lodging which a friend, an Irishman named Bland, was to have secured for us, but had failed somehow to get: so there was nothing to do but leave our
