A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. “We’re in for it. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. One who steals. ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on.
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