He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. And Gerald— Melusine swallowed on an unaccountable lump in her throat. ’ *** In the cosy little parlour that Pottiswick rarely used, Melusine paced restlessly to and fro. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. What a pig she was. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls.
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