"You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. There is a place—This isn’t the place. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; "they are coming!—they are coming!—fly!—to the roof! to the roof. It was ended. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked.
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