His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. ‘There are no Remenhams left. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness.
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