Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. We went our ways. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously.
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