But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father.
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