She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. Luck. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. “I thought I was just up against Morningside Park and father, but it’s the whole order of things—the whole blessed order of things.
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