And the bedchamber, for which Melusine instantly headed, was almost bright. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted.
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