. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. ’ ‘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. The cook tried to ply her with spiced meat and fish soup. What could I do?’ ‘Anything but to bring him to me,’ Melusine threw at him.
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