Anna was singing as she used to sing. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. It might as well be Melusine herself. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. Jonathan had not deceived him. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still.
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