’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. . ’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. “An annuity—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through my solicitors, and which you can consider as a gift from your sister. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it.
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