She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of heavy Shantung silk. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. I shall find him yet. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. Melusine shrugged. He was always doing his best to call her attention to the fact that he was a man of spirit and quality and experience, and she a young and beautiful woman, and that all sorts of constructions upon their relationship were possible, trusting her to go on from that to the idea that all sorts of relationships were possible.
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