‘Jarvis Remenham was your mother’s father. E. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour.
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