He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. ‘Jacques, are you dead? Jacques, do you hear me?’ Melusine put her cheek to his lips, and felt the faint warmth of his breath. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign.
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