She was shifting, moving back. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. ‘Tell me the truth, Melusine. I spied a small picture of them in your house, though. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. That was life. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation.
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