’ ‘Think Valade will come back here then?’ ‘Melusine thinks so,’ Gerald said, pausing at the top of the stairs. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.
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