And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. Moving to the shuttered window, Melusine dragged the heavy drapes back. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. He smiled. ’ ‘Melusine,’ shrieked the nun. Let us be gone.
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