‘For kissing you, or for not meaning to do so?’ ‘Imbecile,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. Melusine came close again, and reached up a finger tentatively to the face depicted there. You have been her guardian angel. “I missed the hour of your release,” he said, “but I was at the Vindicator Restaurant.
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