She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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