’ Melusine hardly dared believe she had heard him aright. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. She opened the door with a neon colored key.
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