"Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. Deep silences came between them. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. ‘He had run away with a Frenchwoman, you see, but Everett Charvill—I refer to the general—took care to conceal the matter. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance.
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