It was the last thing she felt like drinking. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. But luncheon and dinners you will sit at my table.
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