Her parents left two weeks later, the weather still fine. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. ‘Well then, Melusine,’ he said calmly, ‘it seems as if we must get you your dowry willy-nilly. One day it was gone. .
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