Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. He had drawn a horrid picture of the fate that awaited mademoiselle when once the populace discovered her relationship to the Valade family. “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers— every blessed one of us.
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