"There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. ’ 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 could still feel his psychic presence all around her, and she knew he was thinking of her. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French.
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