It was open. ’ *** In the cosy little parlour that Pottiswick rarely used, Melusine paced restlessly to and fro. ’ The lady hesitated a moment, her eyes seeming to measure the distance between where he stood and the door. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. “Now she’s all hat and ideas,” he said, with an air of humor. He understood. If Thames is murdered, you are his assassin.
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