238 < 30 > IN BED John drove her home after school nearly every day. No one is safe. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. Melusine tapped on it. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein.
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