He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. ’ Melusine edged a little away from the portrait. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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