It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. Some years after the date of this history, an immense ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door.
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