Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. Still, he was puzzled because McClintock had not spoken. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. Damn! I’ve splashed. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face.
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