‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. “You told me that your name was Meysey Hill. She reached the station, and mingling with a crowd of excursionists who had come from the river on the other side, took her place in the train unnoticed.
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