. Mr. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. He still watched her and questioned her. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. He was staring at her, openly gaping. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words.
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