‘Are you going to tell me?’ ‘But looking for proof,’ Melusine uttered impatiently. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. He—wanted to marry me. It's infernally provoking.
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