A sinister thought edged in. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. The inn was a military haunt. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. I do not even know his name. "Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames Darrell— am detained here by Jonathan Wild. For that worthless father of yours—’ Melusine let go the hand only so that she might throw her own hands in the air.
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