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Stout, Rex, 1886-1975

"Under the Andes"

Then she spoke:
"Oh, you Americans! You are so funny! A million dollars! It is
impossible that I should be angry after such a compliment.
Besides, you are so funny! Do you not know Le Mire? Am I not a
princess if I desire it--tomorrow--today? Bah! There is the
world--is it not mine? Mrs. Lamar? Ugh! Pardon me, my friend, but
it is an ugly name.
"You know my ancestors? De L'Enclos, Montalais, Maintenon, La
Marana! They were happy--in their way--and they were great. I
must do nothing unworthy of them. Set your mind at rest, Mr.
Lamar; but, really, you should have known better--you who have
seen the world and Le Mire in Paris! And now our amusement is
perhaps ended? Now we must return to that awful New York? Voila!"
Indeed I had not understood her. And how could I? There is only
one such woman in a generation; sometimes none, for nature is
sparing of her favorites. By pure luck she sat before me, this
twentieth-century Marana, and I acknowledged her presence with a
deep bow of apology and admiration.
"If you will forgive me, madame," I said, "I will--not attempt to
make reparation, for my words were not meant for you.


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