“Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. He called a waiter. What was the name on those marriage lines you showed me?’ ‘M—Melusine,’ stammered the woman, her countenance yet registering shock.
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