Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. During this period Sir Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands.
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