There was a dreadful stifled groan, and she fell heavily upon the landing. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. Presently, two carriages dashed down the hill, and drew up before it. Giles's was lined with spectators.
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