’ ‘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. Lucy was sent reeling into a stone wall, which she hit with a great thud. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it.
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