‘Melusine. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. I somehow understood. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. ‘Ah, the tragedy. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. One day it was gone. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. Utter silence answered him.
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