“Isn’t there a brother to kick him?” “Mere satisfaction,” reflected Ogilvy. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel.
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