Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door. No mercenary consideration influences me.
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