Sebastian snorted, “If it isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black!” “Your house is host to the lowest forms of life, those without morals! I will no longer allow my children to live 210 in such a house. But it means no end of a row. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. Melusine gritted her teeth. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. But it's French manners, I suppose. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.
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