‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Almost light-heartedly. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. You have grown into my life. Nothing else matters.
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