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It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. “Call me Cathy, John. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. ” “Can’t we arrange something? Can’t we make a sort of treaty?” “He wouldn’t keep it. ’ The dimple that so fascinated Melusine peeped in her great-aunt’s cheek. “No, stay, Lucy. “I am bored,” she said abruptly.

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