At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. ‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. ‘She wouldn’t tell me.
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