Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. . Yet she took with her an uneasy consciousness that in this affair might lie the germs of future trouble. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment.
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