“What is the good of pretending?” she said. Go in, go in, Melusine prayed, hoping desperately that he would not change his mind and take another route. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. That is very bad indeed. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea.
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