He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non. Spurling, half aside. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day.
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