At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. “It’s his birthday. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief.
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