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Meanwhile, Dea spoke. Her voice was almost indistinct, as if a cloud
already interposed between her and earth.
"Father, you are wrong. I am not in the least delirious. I hear all you
say to me, distinctly. You tell me that there is a great crowd of
people, that they are waiting, and that I must play to-night. I am quite
willing. You see that I have my reason; but I do not know what to do,
since I am dead, and Gwynplaine is dead. I am coming all the same. I am
ready to play. Here I am; but Gwynplaine is no longer here."
"Come, my child," said Ursus, "do as I bid you. Lie down again."
"He is no longer here, no longer here. Oh! how dark it is!"
"Dark!" muttered Ursus. "This is the first time she has ever uttered
that word!"
Gwynplaine, with as little noise as he could help making as he crept,
mounted the step of the caravan, entered it, took from the nail the cape
and the esclavine, put the esclavine round his neck, and redescended
from the van, still concealed by the projection of the cabin, the
rigging, and the mast.
Dea continued murmuring. She moved her lips, and by degrees the murmur
became a melody. In broken pauses, and with the interrupted cadences of
delirium, her voice broke into the mysterious appeal she had so often
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