She turned off the light and approached the window. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. Emile Gosse must know his only chance was to be rid of Melusine. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham.
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