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. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. "I've done no more than my duty, Mrs. ’ ‘Melusine, did you say?’ Mrs Sindlesham sighed. ” An awkward moment of silence followed.
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