“John?” He turned around in the recliner. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. "You are a physician; you know the vagaries of men in liquor. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Know that, don’t you?’ ‘Of course I know it,’ Lucy told him, and Melusine read the whisper in her mouth of those precious words, ‘I love you.
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