‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. It was 1582. ‘What’s wrong, miss? Ain’t I done right?’ Melusine’s mind was reeling, but she reached out and seized his wrist.
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