They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. ’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ burst from mademoiselle as she jumped up. In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. Rattles were sprung; lanterns lighted, and hoisted at the end of poles; windows thrown open; doors unbarred; and, as if by magic, the street was instantaneously filled with a crowd of persons of both sexes, armed with such weapons as came most readily to hand, and dressed in such garments as could be most easily slipped on. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. Yes, of course. Do not be a fool, Jacques.
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