She was not Madame Melusine Valade. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity. “But I am your husband,” he said. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol. Probably he will come around to-morrow and begin all over again. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation.
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