Lucilla broke across Melusine’s thoughts. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. Miching Mallecho. I will come later to see you, Melusine. .
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