’ Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Her father had smiles ready for her, he seemed to be truly happy with her for the first time since her infancy. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor.
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