I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve treated me so well. She lost it in the Mint. I couldn’t help the thought. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. This was followed by heavy footsteps, and in another moment the dining-room door was flung open.
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