Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. The poison from the teeth radiated from her shoulder and paralyzed her limbs. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans.
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