They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. ‘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. She had never been so happy to vomit. ‘Why did you kiss me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Gerald admitted.
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