‘Now then, missie, where do you think you’re going?’ ‘I must see Jacques only for one little minute,’ Melusine told him prettily, fluttering her lashes. Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have occasioned this disturbance.
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