Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. ‘You can’t prove nothing. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila.
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