You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. “It is unimportant,” she said.
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