She forced herself not to think of John. Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. ‘Well then, Melusine,’ he said calmly, ‘it seems as if we must get you your dowry willy-nilly.
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