Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. I spent many happy days there.
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