’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. ’ Her eyes narrowed. Montressor’s guests. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. Old Bedlam. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Her lips were dry and cracked. ’ Melusine caught the fellow eyeing her with resentment and beckoned as she called out to him.
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