Such of his features as were visible were of coarse mould. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. Melusine shrugged. “Your sex is a terrible fraud. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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