There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. Not wisely but too well. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, “by post. I thought that you were he. All at once Melusine remembered Pottiswick, and the errand he had run. .
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