Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel. She had called the police on them anonymously. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives.
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