’ Melusine remembered a thin man of sour aspect, living—like her father and his wife Suzanne—off the vicomte’s bounty. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. "Oh gracious! he's lost. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. She spoke slowly. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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