‘I trust you are cursing Valade, and not Melusine. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. ” He stood up rather close to her and looked into her eyes. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered.
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