As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. I'm almost sorry your suspicions are unfounded, if your father in any way resembled you, my youngster. Did I not say so, Hilary?’ Melusine’s glance shot across to the newcomer, and found a petite blonde standing there, very fashionably attired in a velvet mantel over an apple-green robe, the furred hood framing a face alive with mischief. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. He knew that tragedy was as blind as justice, that it struck the child and the grown-up impartially.
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