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’ ‘But you are excessively clever, Jacques,’ cried Melusine, relief flooding her. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. On searching the coat, he found, amongst other matters, a mask, a key, and a pocket-book. She stared. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. He knew what he knew. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Not us.
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