The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. In a momentary fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the easel. He came over to me. But I do not need that Gérard attend.
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