Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. If you want me, you know where to find me. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. Not Trodger. \"Shouldn't you be in bed? You go into work at 5:30, I thought. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. ’ Melusine stared. It was a brief solitude, however. His hands were exploring her once again in the car. The truth at once flashed across his mind.
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