Martha had been careful to make no mention of Melusine, and did not reply to Mrs Ibstock’s enquiry about the fate of the little babe. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty.
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