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Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. Certainly I never met him. And the sergeant, having carried out all Melusine’s instructions as if they had come out of his own head, went up to check on his patient, apparently at last convinced that his prisoner would not attempt to run away. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. Now, he had achieved them, and felt assured of success. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened.
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