His smile faded. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. ’ ‘Where, then?’ Melusine asked again. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Lucy stepped inside. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. “It couldn’t be. You've caught the colour and the life.
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