From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. She was sitting on the mean straw mattress that was placed on the iron bedstead in the makeshift cell, while Melusine stood with her back to the door, confronting her old nurse with the truth. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently.
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