“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. Melusine grasped the hilt of the sword she had been carefully holding, and came out into the light. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise.
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