‘You mean that there is a rival Melusine to the one he has heard about? He does not. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. ‘Oh, peste. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title.
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