” She batted his arms and slapped him, angrily twisting from his grasp. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. He shook his head all the time. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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