‘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. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. My motive in coming hither is to serve you, and save your life. His hands came up, his face broke apart. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours. It rather astonished him.
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