‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. You have shown an almost feverish anxiety to eliminate from your personal appearance all that reminded me of you —when we first met.
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