‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you.
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