He sent me home. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘What else was there to do? He paid off the servants and left old Pottiswick in charge, saying that the place would have to remain empty until the heir was found. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been.
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