For that worthless father of yours—’ Melusine let go the hand only so that she might throw her own hands in the air. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French.
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