She answered slowly. Go on. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. Still, I'm glad she didn't accept my invitation to join us. ‘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 shall not part with you again. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. I’ve told you that practically already.
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