‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. “We were bound to do this when you kissed me,” she sobbed through her tears.
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