A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. ‘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. Don’t take my word for it though. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. The latch had not fully caught.
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