‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Gerald watched its approach with vague interest, which quickened when he saw that it was drawing up outside the very house out of which he had just stepped.
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