Her state of mind would have seemed altogether discreditable to her grandmother. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. ’ ‘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 is useless to contend with him, even with right on your side. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them.
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