’ 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. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. "Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say.
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