He lowered himself on to her. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. Lucy’s solos were exquisite in their precision and expression. ‘No, no, I am convinced your very first theory was right. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. ‘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.
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