Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ‘Well,’ began Captain Roding, looking at Melusine, ‘you know those nuns of yours took up Valade—I mean, Gosse—and put him to bed to mend his wound, and I posted a guard outside his room so he couldn’t escape, for Gerald told you all that.
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