He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. The girl, with a little moan, crossed the room and threw open the window. Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand.
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