One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. A nod was exchanged. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. Voilà tout, as Melusine herself would say. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.
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