She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. Hetty, who had periods of lucid expression, put the thing for her from her pillow. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. ’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. Let me keep him. Mere formality.
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