Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “But I wanted to see you. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Placing a piece of money in Morgan's hands, he hurried out of the churchyard. Retract your words instantly, or take the consequences. “Indeed,” she said, “I would not. I waited for them to get right out of the grounds. ‘Melusine, don’t sit there.
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