A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented. ‘That’s what comes of disarming yourself. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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