She was weeping now. ’ Melusine sighed in a satisfied way. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. . No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre.
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