Fortescue?” “At your service. "Remember!" cried Quilt, as he forced the captive along. The tall, blond boys, right?” “That’s them. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. ‘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. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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