. ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. She had heard the trader utter it many times. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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