Melusine’s heart jumped and she felt heat rising into her cheeks. “You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn’t she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. ” Lucy said, already exhausted by her friend. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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