There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. He looked at Hilary and nodded. It must have cut him. ‘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. .
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