" "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. ” “Sir John is an ass!” he declared. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. . ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it.
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