’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Gerald said calmly, sipping at his burgundy. ’ Gosse’s eyes went to the portrait, and evidently took in the uncanny resemblance, looking from it to Melusine and back again. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. She would never love him as she loved Capes, of course, but there are grades and qualities of love.
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