She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. “Now replace the stone, my child. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. “I wish you would not do it. 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.
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