The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.
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