When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her.
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