‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. This was in Texas. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. And empty. “Ugh!” she said. He knew she would be there, practicing alone in 118.
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