Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. Melusine was unable to repulse him—even had she tried. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. Michelle laughed, saying that she could only guess. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again.
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