While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room, and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. Nothing could have been farther from Melusine’s mind. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school.
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