’ Melusine bit her lip on a sharp retort. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. ‘That’s just it. ‘I disgust you, eh? Very well, then. You’ll be telling me Gerald did not catch you snooping at the Bicknacres, I suppose. By a sort of instinct. Absolutely.
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