Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. ’ For a moment Melusine stared at him as she took in the full horror of his scheme. “It may be true, but it isn’t quite what I have in mind. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. I thought one had only to take it by the throat.
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