“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her.
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