Melusine fetched her stool and plonked it down next to her great-aunt’s chair. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. He died in the war. ‘I try to be. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. ’ ‘Where, then?’ Melusine asked again. Alban's to-night.
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