Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. He looked at her, hurt. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. Martha had been careful to make no mention of Melusine, and did not reply to Mrs Ibstock’s enquiry about the fate of the little babe. ‘It is not possible. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. .
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