If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. ’ ‘Melusine,’ shrieked the nun. Capes?” she heard her aunt saying. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend.
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