If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked.
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