The sunshine broke across each shoulder, one lance striking the yellow face of a Chinaman, queueless and dressed in European clothes, the other lance falling squarely upon the face of the man he had journeyed thirteen thousand miles to find. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. There are way-stations—even terminals. ’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided.
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