’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. But, no.
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