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There’s no logic in these things. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. ‘No one is here, Melusine, except you and I. But how to avail himself of it was the question, for in his present garb he was sure to be recognised. ‘One does not blow off the head of a man with whom one is in love, en effet. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving.
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