She entered the kitchen. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. For the first time that day, she was finally able to look into his face. Rats and things crawling all over. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed.
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