When she arrived at the Palazzo, not a single sentry was aware of her presence. Then, seeing Melusine’s feathered beaver had fallen to the floor, picked that up for her. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. It was Annabel who spoke. “WHAT a place! “Stuffy isn’t the word for it.
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