“Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. He said the place had gone to wrack. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine. F.
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