Wagstaff. But all of that was forgotten. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. But today Melusine’s new-found knowledge put Martha at a disadvantage. It isn’t illusions—for us.
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