“But you must forgive me, John. ‘You do not try. I have very few friends in Paris. ’ Melusine fought down the raw emotion that threatened to overwhelm her and drew a steadying breath. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. “I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own.
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