’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. By a sort of instinct. There was no one to be seen in the great hall. John, he was between me and the door. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. He might solve the riddle.
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