He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. They were now both in a state of unprecedented physical fitness. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. No matter. ‘Which means if he goes to the lawyers, he’ll get in ahead of Melusine.
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