She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Her cheeks were aflame. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway.
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