She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. 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. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped.
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