But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. “He dissembles,” he said. ‘Certainly I have them with me.
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