“More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. ” There was a shout of laughter. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her.
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