I was grateful. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. “Please forgive me. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. Melusine did not attempt to speak.
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