‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. I'm crazy over music, too.
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