"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. I don’t classify. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. And my wife won’t live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached.
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