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Melusine, her breath coming in short bursts, heard a sudden flurry of several heavy footsteps and harsh commands exchanged. By a sort of instinct. She was not Madame Melusine Valade. “They ought to have been lopped in the spring. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. That might happen on her birthday—in August. “I’m sorry.
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