As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. No means were neglected to accomplish this end. She used to play violin, you know. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Melusine’s eyes blazed into his. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked.
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