And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. What a treat to see all the old tabbies taken at fault for once!’ ‘You are a dreadful child,’ scolded Mrs Sindlesham, with which Melusine could not but agree, despite the dimple rioting in her great-aunt’s cheek. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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