That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. She saw his face change, how he regretted. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable.
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