God knows how you did it. It might as well be Melusine herself. But before he could say anything, the vehicle rolled to a halt. —There, Mr. gutenberg. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. ’ They passed through a little antechamber, and Melusine sighed with relief as she entered the library next door. Blueskin answered by dashing his head violently against the flagged floor. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions.
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