She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. He has no imagination, no real generosity. But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head. FOREWORD Forever Fifteen was born of a dream I had in 2002, a dream that was part nightmare.
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