Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. His smile faded. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. Everything had stayed the same during the centuries. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. The future was not so black.
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