"My lips would belie my heart were I to refuse you. But there was a face pressed to the glass. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. Melusine came back to the present to discover that tears were rolling down her cheeks. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began.
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