It was wrenched away from Melusine’s clutching hands. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. He embraced her like her father once had. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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