‘Does Charvill know that this Melusine of yours is here?’ The question distracted Gerald. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. The angels in Heaven shall not tear you from me. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. ’ Gerald capitulated. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir.
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