“Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. CHAPTER VIII. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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