’ Melusine stifled a giggle. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. I’m fine. Missy is into the witchcraft stuff, Wicca, nothing bad or anything. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations.
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