Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. “For luck. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. White’s,” she said, “and if he is going to persist in this delusion, we cannot both remain here.
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