No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. As in a dream, Melusine saw her faithful footman struck, his headlong progress checked. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully.
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