Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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