Whatever he did, she was bound to scream. ’ Tears sprang to Melusine’s own eyes, and she clasped the hand she held more tightly. The last time Pottiswick had called out the militia on suspicion of intruders in Remenham House, a large rodent had been all the spoil. 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.
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