‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French.
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