Burn your palette and your easel. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open.
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