Paris, 18. "Constance is yet living. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ‘Major, sir!’ The major appeared so swiftly that Melusine was instantly suspicious. The only departure which he made from the fashion of the period, was in respect to the peruke—an article he could never be induced to wear. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. Come in! Come in, do. She felt that she became more familiar with the floor during the time that he stayed than with any particular person. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. .
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