THAMES DARRELL. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. The man himself was not a pleasant object. CHAPTER XII. Know that, don’t you?’ ‘Of course I know it,’ Lucy told him, and Melusine read the whisper in her mouth of those precious words, ‘I love you. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. 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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