’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all. ‘You are extremely empty-headed, Lucy. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. " "My son!" echoed the widow, trembling.
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