‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. Until this instant, he discovered, he had thought of Melusine’s plan only in a nebulous fashion, a naïve girl’s dream. And girls and women, perhaps, are different. “I wrote it for you. It was clear it must be to-morrow. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. ‘Imbecile. “I do not wish to make impertinent inquiries into your private life.
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