‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. Melusine felt the calloused hand grasp around hers. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. “Ass!” he went on, still warming.
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