The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “Is it any one you know?” Brendon asked. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. “Now she’s all hat and ideas,” he said, with an air of humor. ’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would.
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