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" "Lead the way to it then, Saint Giles," said Jack, in a tone of mock authority. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. Á bientot—Melusine. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Vee’s all right. Nevertheless it was overwhelming.
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