‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me. “No, I am alone,” she answered. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. It is a big house and there are many rooms in which to hide. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. I know faces.
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