Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. His eyes swept the company, and fell upon Melusine with a glare. I said I hadn’t been at the Royal Society soiree for four years, and got him to tell me about some of the fresh Mendelian work. The young man opposite was straining his ears to listen to their conversation.
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