Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. She felt much better. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. But it doesn’t alter the situation.
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