Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. ’ ‘Do not hope it,’ returned Melusine, snapping uncontrollably. ’ ‘What are you about now, child?’ demanded Martha apprehensively.
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