\" She said, and they walked down the pebble stone path designed for joggers and bikers. . ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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