You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. And two other ladies. ‘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. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it.
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