’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. Sheppard trembled violently; and though she understood his meaning too well, she answered,—"I can't guess. The terror faded from her eyes. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. It has all been a mistake.
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