She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. ‘Eh bien?’ ‘You are perfectly right, Melusine. I WAS talking to him before I saw his name on the card beside the row of microscopes.
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