I know the Dutch. Something softened in Melusine’s chest. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. And that’s why I’m at your service.
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