I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. Melusine started back, blinking. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. They would be partners only in loneliness. “Now I should like to know,” she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, “what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself.
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