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’ Melusine looked resentfully at the pistol. Lucy stood in front of the piano. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts.
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