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’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. ‘Now let’s have it.
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