‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. “One hardly knows—all the time. 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. Kneebone's," remarked Austin, rising to fasten the door. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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