‘Jacques, are you dead? Jacques, do you hear me?’ Melusine put her cheek to his lips, and felt the faint warmth of his breath. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. He was like a man beside himself. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. ‘But that will do for a start. " "How do you manage that, Mr.
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