Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. F. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. It was the bitterest moment of her life. ’ ‘Ah, but I have a special reason for doing so this time. The young man had knocked over the siphon.
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