He glanced down between the still narrow distance that lay between Melusine and himself, and discovered her hand there, a very small dagger within it. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. “It’s the spring,” he said. "I'm glad to find I'm right. She was making it up. ‘No, Melusine. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy.
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