With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. He glanced down between the still narrow distance that lay between Melusine and himself, and discovered her hand there, a very small dagger within it. Annabel thought, and thought again.
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