“John,” she said, “I can spare you that question. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. ‘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. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be.
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