‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are.
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