Melusine shrugged. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ’ Melusine sank against the wall of the corridor, closing her eyes. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer.
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