She calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. Melusine giggled, and tucked her hand into his. Mirrors. It is like a second honeymoon. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQwLjIwNy4yMDcgLSAwMy0wNi0yMDI0IDA1OjM2OjUzIC0gMTE1ODc2ODc0
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