‘Will you let be?’ Instead she grasped his hand tighter. “I feared we might have a fog. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. ‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve.
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