Nothing seemed to be amiss. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. You are afraid of kisses. ’ The dimple that so fascinated Melusine peeped in her great-aunt’s cheek. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale.
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