The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. She was dressed as a white woman should be; and that for the present satisfied her instincts. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. The strong fingers of one hand secured both her wrists there, and Melusine found herself chest to chest with him as he threw off his hat, and began to pat at her petticoat, searching for tell-tale protrusions. When he returned, it was always the same. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. Unless he has killed someone.
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