“If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. You came to me, you wished me to speak to Anna. In Paddington. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. The figure she had longed to see came into her line of vision, but at this crucial moment of hideous realisation, Melusine barely took it in, her eyes fixing blankly on the man behind.
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