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She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. The chamber rang with her shrieks. I am sure. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory. ‘Madwoman,’ he screamed back, as he climbed over the next pew, eyes darting down briefly to check for his sword. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. I felt—I felt living in a masked world.
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