‘Now then, missie, where do you think you’re going?’ ‘I must see Jacques only for one little minute,’ Melusine told him prettily, fluttering her lashes. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. I’ve got a streak of male. What was the matter with the dress? She could not see. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored.
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