“I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead.
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