Here again instinct guided her. Something softened in Melusine’s chest. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. A.
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