She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. As in a dream, Melusine saw her faithful footman struck, his headlong progress checked. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Lucy inhaled deeply. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. ‘Gad, what a mess!’ Gerald pulled free, and Melusine broke back, staring at him. Immediately he was gone, she regretted that she had not followed.
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