Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. Arrived in the plantation she sat down with her back against a tree trunk. His eyes swept down and Melusine felt the quiver at her lips where he gazed. That is what my mother used to call me. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. The longing to talk to someone! But in the end she had gone to her room without giving in to the craving. Quite trying of him not to be there when he is wanted. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. I never want you to be ashamed of me. .
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