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That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. Of all the amazing coincidences. . .
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