She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. ’ Melusine edged a little away from the portrait.
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