I am called Melusine. It’s a lake among precipices, and there is a little inn where we can stay, and sit and eat our dinner at a pleasant table that looks upon the lake. “I haven’t seen the new Patience, dear,” she said. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre.
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