"Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Then the long lashes sank demurely over them. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury.
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