Mon cher major, Melusine began. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. “It seems to me it comes to earning one’s living in the long run,” said Ann Veronica, coloring faintly.
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