She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. ’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. I’ll be waiting for you outside.
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