’ Gerald did not speak, but there was a look in his face that made Melusine glad she had at last had the courage to confide in him. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. I guess. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation.
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