’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. She would write to Gerald.
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