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Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds. ‘Melusine…Melusine.
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