Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. ‘Yes, tell us everything at once,’ instructed Lucilla, pushing him towards the sofa she had vacated, and obliging him to sit beside her.
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