“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. “You’re so unbelievably beautiful, Lucy. You dear, dear girl. ‘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. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other.
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