So he made merry at the dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which she grasped the comic side of life. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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