Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. For an instant, Melusine watched him go. He groaned, much to Melusine’s relief. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered.
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