‘Bête,’ she flung at him. “I think that’s the right name. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. She loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. Here I am.
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