There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. ‘You do not want to be a nun,’ he said now, and Melusine noted with a prick at her senses the irritation in his tone.
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