She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street.
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