“Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. ’ ‘But you do not make love,’ Melusine pointed out. This she would not endure. Makes you real.
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