‘You know?’ ‘Come, come, Melusine. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. She had heard the trader utter it many times. Until now none of her prayers had ever been answered. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused.
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