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‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. "Where are you going?" she asked. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. ’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided.
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