Melusine’s eyes shifted. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Warren’s Profession. ‘Have you any more pretty toys like that knife about you?’ ‘The girl’s a regular arsenal,’ Hilary snapped, giving up into his senior’s hand the nasty little weapon he had snatched. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. They sucked face and felt each other up, or something. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by.
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