” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. I’ve told you that practically already. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. Earles’ waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar’s office. Unless we can get some optimism into him, he'll probably start this all over again when he gets on his feet.
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