“When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table. Perhaps in two or three weeks. ‘You would say that already then you love me?’ His glance was a caress and Melusine’s resolve weakened. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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