But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. She drank it obediently. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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