The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. He was afraid if he stayed that he would make a fool of himself. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. And the sergeant, having carried out all Melusine’s instructions as if they had come out of his own head, went up to check on his patient, apparently at last convinced that his prisoner would not attempt to run away. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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