Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. They were followed by Jonathan, who carried a stout stick under his arm, and planted himself near the stone. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge.
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