. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. “It’s—private. . The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night.
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