She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. Diving towards it, he tried to press against the rivulet that was seeping from it, hampered mightily by Melusine’s fingers, which were grasping at his other hand. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. “Am I hurting you?” She asked. But I'm resolved to see Lady Trafford.
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