It was a fetching gown that stretched tightly in a cream colored swath over her breasts and expanded to a full skirt with a petticoat. ‘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. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. Or had you not noticed?’ He sneered.
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