Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Before her was a great Gothic portal. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. "I'll see. You will be wearing your travelling dress, and no doubt you would prefer it. Wood, at the top of her voice.
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