‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted.
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