He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t.
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