"Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. “Which is Mr. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand. She felt like a dried-up old woman. I mean my cut-offs and boots. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility.
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