She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. That night in his den he smoked many pipes. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. What was his problem, she thought to herself.
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