He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Miss Moffatt, the history and moral instruction mistress, was particularly explicit upon this score, and they all agreed in indicating contempt and pity for girls whose minds ran on such matters, and who betrayed it in their conversation or dress or bearing. ‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice.
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