I said to myself at once, ‘Either this is a coincidence or the caper sauce. F. 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. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. Look somewhere else in life.
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