’ *** In the cosy little parlour that Pottiswick rarely used, Melusine paced restlessly to and fro. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. ’ To her astonishment, Gosse’s servile attitude vanished abruptly. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled.
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