"Hist!" exclaimed Jack. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. ’ ‘But he gives them to me. The theme was a masquerade. ” “Your priestess,” whispered Ann Veronica, softly.
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