“Yes. ’ ‘Yes, do so,’ rejoined Melusine enthusiastically. They sat in the front row. “For Heaven’s sake, Dunster, don’t let her out of the carriage, or hansom, or whatever she came in. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. Maternal relations. The Well Hole. She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town.
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