“What are you two whispering about?” She turned towards Martin. . . She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. We’ve done nothing to deserve it. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head.
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