"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. ‘So that’s true, is it?’ ‘Certainly it is true,’ Melusine said, opening her eyes wide. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. ‘She knows them. The only persons in the Lodge were Mrs.
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