" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. Melusine approached with caution and sat warily at one end, looking up at him expectantly.
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