’ 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. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. The theme was a masquerade. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. Wood in their favour.
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