"Ja," answered Van; "at a minut's nodish. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table. CHAPTER II.
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