She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low.
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