\" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Melusine choked on a laugh, and Gerald at once seized the initiative, speaking in a tone deliberately soothing. "I shall state my suspicions to the governor. And so your Melusine is busy trying to prove that she is the real one.
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