The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. And you, Mademoiselle Melusine, will support this claim. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Accidentally raising his eyes, he saw that he was perceived by the family from Dollis Hill, and that he was an object of the deepest interest to them. Washed in light from the vestry window, she held her ground, all thought at bay, bar the steel determination long ago instilled in her by her unconventional tutor. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. She was fine and tender.
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