It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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