“There wasn’t. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. You'll find those young ladies extremely agreeable acquaintances.
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