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She was furiously angry. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. ’ ‘I am going to England,’ Melusine stated flatly, ‘because there is no safety at the convent at Blaye. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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