She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. ‘Now then, missie, where do you think you’re going?’ ‘I must see Jacques only for one little minute,’ Melusine told him prettily, fluttering her lashes. “I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. It looks so French to be affectionate.
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