Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. E. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. Then Melusine is in truth your granddaughter.
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