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Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite.
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