‘When she lies outright, she thinks about it. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. What do you mean by it, eh?’ ‘But I did not send it to you,’ Melusine rejoined instantly. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. This also struck her as odd.
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