Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. He was struck disagreeably by Ramage’s air of gallant consideration and Ann Veronica’s self-possessed answers.
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