Her favor was sought beyond all women’s favors. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began. He was draining a glass, and as he set it down he shuddered. He grunted, and his grip gave. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. “If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile.
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