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The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire? ‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room.
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