We’ll have some buttered toast. Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor. ‘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. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions.
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