’ Charvill eyed the girl with resentment. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. ’ Relief flooded Melusine. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully.
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