There were no mourners. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. Anna lets the deception continue and has to bear the burden of her sister’s reputation which, in Paris at any rate, is that of being a coquette. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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