‘This is the way you tell me that you love me? You English idiot, you!’ He seized her wrists to hold her off, actually daring to laugh, much to Melusine’s increased fury. It was the gallows. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet.
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