’ His head came thrusting out at Melusine like a belligerent tortoise from its shell. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. He reached for her and she stroked his head soothingly as his mother had done a few times when he had suffered bad fevers.
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