Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. That might happen on her birthday—in August. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. ’ ‘Hadn’t the wit, you mean.
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