This was the bitterest hour he had ever known. “I had a dream in the night,” she said. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. Of course.
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