She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes. She was shocked. We’re different. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. ‘But what is it that amuses you, Jacques?’ Kimble’s grin spread wider. Jack instandly extinguished the light, and called to his comrade to come after him. It’s just upon my lunch-time. Give me the keys and the light. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight.
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