‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. “We parted— that night the best of friends. "Ruth?" he called. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity.
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