It was so difficult to put precisely. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.
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