Melusine approached with caution and sat warily at one end, looking up at him expectantly. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. "Is it poison?" she asked. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. As the wedding neared, she bought some finer things: a veal roast for supper, a single pearl for the dowry.
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