The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Melusine was loath to admit how much more lonely since Gerald chose not to visit her. Lost ground must be regained.
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