‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. Did I not say so, Hilary?’ Melusine’s glance shot across to the newcomer, and found a petite blonde standing there, very fashionably attired in a velvet mantel over an apple-green robe, the furred hood framing a face alive with mischief. “We played at love-making in Paris. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. “I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed.
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