" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. ’ Melusine turned, an irrepressible giggle escaping her lips as she thought of the Mother Abbess in the convent at Blaye. “Eight, Cavendish Square.
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