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"Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard. But this made the chase all the more exciting. Other things came. Then a ride to London on horseback. Listen to me, Thames. ‘Besides, I don’t want the men blundering in here and frightening off our spy. It was not a hopeful looking group.
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