Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. “Thank you both for treating me for all the world like I was your child. What was the name on those marriage lines you showed me?’ ‘M—Melusine,’ stammered the woman, her countenance yet registering shock. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said.
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