But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. Never mind. ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent.
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