‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. “My wife. I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. " CHAPTER XIII. She was only trying to distract you so that she might escape. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. The vast heap of rubbish on the floor had been so materially increased by the bricks and plaster thrown down in his attack upon the wall of the Red Room, that it was with some difficulty he could find the blanket which was almost buried beneath the pile.
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