She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. She became angry with herself. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. She's not mischievous—and besides she's chained, and can't reach you. Charcoal.
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