“Oh, we are also under the spell,” he declared, “but I think that we are here mainly because it is cheap. “Not to-night,” she 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. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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