Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. And to wish not is useless, because you have told me from when I was a little girl. His car was there. “I mean to go to that dance!” she blubbered.
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