John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. ’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock. ’ There was sense in what she said, Melusine was obliged to concede. She was in one of her old walking-dresses, her hair was done in an unfamiliar manner, she wore a wedding-ring, and she looked as if she had been crying.
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