The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. “Is that plain?” she asked. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. Swiftly he looked back to Melusine and found she had whisked to the window, dragging a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily blowing her nose. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits.
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