She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss.
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