“Call it warning, if you like. In the mornings I find labour easy because I am going to see you. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends.
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