She looked at him mournfully. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. ‘What is this fate?’ ‘Un mariage of no distinction. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. But I don’t think she lays hold of one so. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. ’ ‘Where, then?’ Melusine asked again.
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