’ ‘You see,’ Melusine explained between mouthfuls of food, ‘poor Marthe had promised to my father that she will say nothing. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. The light would betray us. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one.
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