She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. Jackson’s. Playing became a way of escape. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. She was always asking questions about her mother and supplying the answers. Maggot.
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