Voilà tout, as Melusine herself would say. Teenage boys never change, she thought to herself. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. Heliers. They stopped talking, except to each other. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore.
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