Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees.
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