CHAPTER XII. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. But she was not sure just how to reach it.
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