‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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