Then she stood up and looked around the room. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. All sorts of considerations come in. Her sister’s words were true.
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