"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. ‘You speak as if you expected to meet her again, Gerald. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. ’ Gerald gazed at her without expression. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony.
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