The Supper at Mr. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul.
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