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‘Melusine, don’t sit there. ‘He arst me to find him someone who might go with you. Everything. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. "Sir Rowland, I salute you as your nephew.
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