“It’s the spring,” he said. She was in a very uncritical state that afternoon. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. “I wanted to make love to you. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. He had known she would be shocked, but he was equally certain Melusine would have refused to see her grandfather had she been forewarned. “When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table.
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