Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. ‘What’s wrong, miss? Ain’t I done right?’ Melusine’s mind was reeling, but she reached out and seized his wrist. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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