There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. ‘Why?’ ‘Why take me to France? Why trouble himself with me, when so easily he could leave me to this Monsieur Remenham to keep?’ To Melusine’s instant suspicion, Martha bit her lip, drew a breath, and avoided her charge’s gaze. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted.
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