She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. I will shed no more blood. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. For a long time neither spoke again.
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