He suspected a trap. 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. ’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. Stanley wanted to object strongly, but as he could not immediately think how to put it, he contented himself with a grunt, and the motion was carried. ’ His features relaxed again and he grinned.
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