She passed inside and upstairs without a word. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. ‘Melusine…Melusine. Jonathan mixed with the group, and, sure of his prey, abided his time. Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences detailed in the preceding division of this history. There were so many things about her which he could not understand. 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.
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