They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. Melusine stepped back a pace, her gaze fixed on the vision before her.
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