The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. "Get up, then," said Jack, freeing his foot from the stirrup. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do.
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