’ ‘Don’t need you to tell me that, Prudence Sindlesham,’ barked the old man, his glance snapping at her briefly, before resuming his study of Melusine, who, to Gerald’s intense admiration, was standing before him, glaring and stiff with defiance. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. But for now, I’d like to turn in, if you don’t mind.
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