The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ enquired the captain at length, ‘that you have had the infernal audacity, the—the gall, the—the— Gad, it’s an outrage! You’ve stolen a horse from a priest?’ ‘I did not steal it,’ protested Melusine hotly. From then on he was Ruth's dog.
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