Perhaps he had heard of this Enschede. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so.
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