The beach is alluring, with the way the waves touch against the wet sand and curl away again, and Melchior could sit on the sand and read or write until his skin baked for all he cared. It isn't like his oak tree, his old private place for thinking, but nothing ever will be, he's starting to think. The beach is just as good though, in a different
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He looked over at Melchior, smiling. "Where did you find him? He seems a lovely friend."
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He shook his head, amused. "I suppose it's only fair, considering the Russian lessons, but I can't imagine I will be very good at it."
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"We are doing well," he answered, smiling fondly. "Very well."
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