The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. Nothing like the direct approach, she thought.
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