‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. She is no longer mine; she is yours. She bent down. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence.
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