Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. ” A shade of concern darkened Carol Diedermayer’s face. She lost it in the Mint. Ramage. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia.
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