He heard Rollo's stump beat a gentle tattoo on the floor. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church.
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