White is proud of her drawing-room evenings. Salvation. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. ‘Why don’t you?’ Melusine frowned at him, grasping the dagger more firmly.
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