No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Glancing swiftly towards the doorway, Gerald saw his friend’s disbelieving face and burst out, speaking over the top of Melusine as she made another grab for the little square of linen. If only to say goodbye. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees.
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