‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice. “Get me someone, Oracle. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. But it's French manners, I suppose.
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