“The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. . ‘That would have grieved Jarvis. And if you’ve any notion—’ ‘Yes, it is upstairs,’ Melusine agreed, crossing to the library door. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. "Here I am, Captain," cried a voice from without. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. Too much, perhaps. Poor little one.
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