‘You know what I am about,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr.
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