“It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. But it was the form of her ruling determination; it was the only form that she ever allowed to see daylight.
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