It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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