Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. They were followed by Jonathan, who carried a stout stick under his arm, and planted himself near the stone. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. She found herself struggling with a storm of tears.
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