He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “Thank you both for treating me for all the world like I was your child. ‘Leonardo again,’ he growled. Melusine felt the calloused hand grasp around hers. “What are you doing?” He cried.
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