There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. He must be more or less of an age with this man. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. You know, Melusine. And then her pace slackened. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious.
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