‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Melusine flung herself down the rest of the steps and through the doorway. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian.
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