The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. “Too greasy for me. I am no one, Gérard. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire? ‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room. And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement.
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