‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. He arrived at 6:29 sharp on the night of the Junior Prom. Two women entered and sat down at the adjoining table. I don't think he'll come to himself too soon.
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