She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Here was one that subtly mocked her. She stood without motion and without strength. So here I am, king of all I survey, with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player. ‘It must have been so, Melusine, or I wouldn’t have kissed you. “Absolutely platonically,” she said.
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