"You!" cried Jack, scornfully. “Bless you, sweetheart. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Go, and let him in. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. This was irregular.
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