” She was silent. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Not I. ‘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. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad. In a momentary fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the easel.
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