They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. Swiftly he looked back to Melusine and found she had whisked to the window, dragging a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily blowing her nose. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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