She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. . ’ ‘But you are not a surgeon,’ protested Melusine. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. ‘Because I love you. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. Yet she never once thought of changing it.
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