’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided. ‘That is my mother. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply.
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