” He made his voice very low and full, and looked closely into her face. "I should like to see whether Blueskin is a little more composed. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. ” “Never,” he exclaimed vehemently. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. Her heart thudded. It’s 180 endearing. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods.
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