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But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. ‘Oh, my God, Melusine, what have I done?’ Melusine shook her head. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true.
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