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’ Melusine gave it up. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. ‘She would say, espéce de diable, this Melusine.
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