In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ’ Melusine sank against the wall of the corridor, closing her eyes. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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