‘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. This was followed by heavy footsteps, and in another moment the dining-room door was flung open. And if I don’t, I go mad. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. 7. He’ll survive. Wood.
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