‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. But Miss Mary and me—’ Melusine looked up as the woman broke off again. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. She passed down the stairs and into the street.
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