She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot.
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