It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. He walked with bent head. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude.
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