’ *** In the cosy little parlour that Pottiswick rarely used, Melusine paced restlessly to and fro. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "Your sympathy is being wasted. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed.
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