Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. Once outside, she ran towards the playground, and the grotto, a miniature limestone version of the manor, which was in itself a miniature of a fortress. The music throbbed into the warnings that preceded the king’s irruption. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. “You are really a good Samaritan,” she declared. It might as well be Melusine herself. She shut the door behind her.
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