Melusine’s heart jumped and she felt heat rising into her cheeks. 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. But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing. Brendon made a quick movement forward. ‘Do you think I do not know? If this pig has not done so, there would be no need for me to do it.
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