The girl’s gaze met his in interested inquiry. Yes, of course. Hill lost a little of his truculency. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door. ‘Eh bien?’ ‘You are perfectly right, Melusine. “It was best for me to know.
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