The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. She caught at the idea. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. Melusine came back to the present to discover that tears were rolling down her cheeks.
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