It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. It doesn’t seem to matter. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. ’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me.
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