All of us were fussy, colicky babies from what she tells me. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. “I am going to break a covenant,” he cried. Melusine tapped on it.
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