It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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