Mon cher major, Melusine began. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. I do not intend to be married, or to become engaged just at present. After a little further discourse the old man took his departure. You will be under the eye of the best friend I have; and if you do not treat that child for what she is —an innocent angel—I promise to hunt you across the wide world and kill you with bare hands. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance.
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