‘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. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. Her father had determined on a new line. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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