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She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. “Okay. ‘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. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. I will not be persecuted in this way by you. Maggot, dealing him a buffet that sent him reeling several yards backwards.
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