‘No one is here, Melusine, except you and I. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Still he had a decent look, and decidedly the air of one well-to-do in the world. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home.
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