Her gratitude swelled within her. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Then, naturally, I went on talking. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. I want to be a person by myself, and to pull my own strings. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked.
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