“My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. I have a certain standing not only as a singer but as a critic, and I belong to one of the most brilliant causerie dinner clubs of the day, in which successful Bohemianism, politicians, men of affairs, artists, sculptors, and cultivated noblemen generally, mingle together in the easiest and most delightful intercourse. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Melusine’s heart ached for him, but she had to force him on. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray.
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