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The door leaned inward. Their colloquy was ended abruptly by the apparition of Miss Klegg at the further door. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Spurlock—for that's his real name—were married at high noon. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view of life.
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