"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. ’ ‘You mean monsieur le baron, the General Charvill, my grandfather?’ Melusine laid aside on the table the letter she had been studying and turned so that the frame of her nun’s wimple no longer obscured her view. I ——” He stopped short. “Ciao. The Night-Cellar XVIII. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for.
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