Later. “My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. They want some fun, and there isn't any. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. So the world is choked with waste and waiting daughters. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father.
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