When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct. Wood started to his feet. She tried to be casual. It's your eagerness that bothers me. It’s these damned novels.
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