Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. Your second turn is not over, is it?” She laughed a little hardly. She hated living like that. I’ve never muffed an exam yet. ’ ‘But, no,’ cried Melusine anxiously.
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