The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. She smiled. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. Melusine was silent, revolving this outcome in her mind as she stared at Roding, who was frowning at her in a puzzled way. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him.
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