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’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes. Do you think that I shall ever make an actress, my friend?” “I doubt it,” he answered bluntly. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin.
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