She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. ‘Jacques, are you dead? Jacques, do you hear me?’ Melusine put her cheek to his lips, and felt the faint warmth of his breath. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. It was a work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground.
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