There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. It was not a long prayer. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. ‘To me, quickly!’ There was a brief hush, and then the shouts resumed and several pairs of feet clattered towards her from, as it seemed, several directions.
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