Melusine giggled, and tucked her hand into his. Perhaps she was. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. ‘I do not see at all. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. I loathe this room.
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