’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill.
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