Melusine turned to look at the walls, and saw, immediately opposite, set between two candelabra above a marquetry side table, a gilded mirror. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. ’ Melusine found her tongue. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round.
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