’ ‘But you are not a surgeon,’ protested Melusine. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. "I merely asked the question," he said, after he had enjoyed the boy's suspense for a moment. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. They must have a key.
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