A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts. I want a walk. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter.
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