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She gained her room, and slammed her door and locked it as though she feared violence and pursuit. She came quickly into the little parlour, which now seemed inordinately crowded, and coming up to Melusine, seized her hands in a warm clasp. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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