Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. He felt her observance and warmed to it. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels.
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