The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. She ignored it until it repeated itself. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. An uncomfortable silence followed. “We were bound to do this when you kissed me,” she sobbed through her tears. Brown gushed conservatively about the orchestra, letting the audience know about the recording engineers and how proud he was of Martin Chen. She would stare if she knew the full sum of Melusine’s activities. “I don’t understand.
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