As soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington.
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