
pubOne.information bestow you this new edition. At Paris, just soon after dark 1 gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of thoughts and a meerschaum, in firm including my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his small back library, or book-closet, au troisiême, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence even though each, to any casual observer, may have seemed intently and exclusively occupied including the curling eddies of smoke including the intention of oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For for myself, even so, I was mentally discussing specific topics which had formed matter for exchange between us at an before period of the evening I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked in the lead it, as a result, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our apartment construction was thrown open and admitted our ancient acquaintance, Monsieur G- , the Prefect of the Parisian police.
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