So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love.
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