She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. Taking her limbs was the only thing I could do short of killing her. Thwart me, and I become your mortal enemy. Her heart's in the right place, at all events; and, since that's the case, the rest may perhaps come round, —that is, if she gets through her present illness.
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