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The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. The struggle was brief, and Gerald stepped aside, the pistol in his possession, while the girl Melusine stood trembling and glaring. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ’ ‘Emile Gosse,’ Melusine said flatly, in the same language. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. ” Ann Veronica could have wept with vexation. A dissipated, loose-living man.
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