“Sir John is not at all that sort. “Julian, please wait. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake. He seemed to her indistinguishably about her father’s age. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself.
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