’ 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 had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery; sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of the stews. But, you see, I’m smirched. .
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