‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. But for me it doesn’t matter. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. . ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. This niggardliness compelled him to cross and recross streets.
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