Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion.
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