There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. ‘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. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. But nothing followed to indicate that the liquid had stimulated the heart. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out.
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