Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. Think of those days in Paris. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. “I should kill you. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia.
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