Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. ‘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. “We mustn’t have any unpleasantness, and Mr.
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