She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. ” “Surely,” he protested, “the change is all in favour of your own inclinations. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse.
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