‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. The theme was a masquerade.
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