The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. He is Jacques. On that first occasion, the delay in locating the entrance to the secret passage meant that she had to wait until morning to make her search. “That’s it,” she said. . She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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