"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Then perhaps it is Prudence?’ ‘Oh la la! That is not me at all. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Balked, Melusine halted. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. "And now, Mrs.
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