Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. But I shan’t try to stop you. . ’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. Think better of it.
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