" "No," thundered Wild. She was not Madame Melusine Valade. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. ‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark.
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