Something softened in Melusine’s chest. I’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. I should as soon think of trusting a woman.
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