‘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. “You have even her name. Don't be frightened of her. It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. She herself had cut the slender tie that had bound them.
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