After that consolations fled. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of torchlight, and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of weapons, and the braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first detachment of Minters. .
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