’ ‘You mean monsieur le baron, the General Charvill, my grandfather?’ Melusine laid aside on the table the letter she had been studying and turned so that the frame of her nun’s wimple no longer obscured her view. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. There was a second co-respondent. His voice now had lost its ironies. And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. “Sometimes it is not bad. Out of all this we have struck a sort of harmony.
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