Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back. ‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly. He shall have the estates. Go for it. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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