"An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. "Certain. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Á bientot—Melusine. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully.
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