She turned, and, catching Marche's eyes, smiled adorably, with a slight nod of comradeship. Then, the smile still faintly curving her lips, she crossed her legs in the pit, and, warming her hands in the pockets of her coat, leaned back, resting against the rail behind. "You haven't a foot-warmer," he said. "I'm not cold—only my fingers—a little—stooling those birds." They spoke in low voices, under their breath.
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