” “You would let him—knowing—all that you know?” “Why not? She is my flesh and blood. She described the Goopes and the Fabians to him, and gave him a sketch of her landlady; and he talked in the most liberal and entertaining way of a modern young woman’s outlook. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. She would stare if she knew the full sum of Melusine’s activities. “Listen,” she said. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. “I’m not the Devil.
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