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Miriam was glad of her thin voice piercing the darkness she did not want to sleep. She loved the day that had gone; and the one that was coming. She saw the room again as it had been when Mademoiselle had looked up towards the toiles d'araignees. She had never thought of there being cobwebs up there.
Miriam began playing very softly "The March of the Men of Harlech," and got to her feet and went marching gently round the room near the walls. Sitting up, Mademoiselle listened. Presently she rounded her eyes and pointed with one finger to the dim roof of the attic. "Les toiles, d'araignees auront peur!" she whispered.
Miriam ceased playing and her eyes went up to the little window frames high in the wall, farthest away from the island made by their two little beds and the matting and toilet chests and scarcely visible in the flickering candle-light, and came back to Mademoiselle's face. "Les toiles d'araignees," she breathed, straining her eyes to their utmost size. They gazed at each other. "Les toiles..."
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