"So it is," the doctor agreed. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. . .
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