’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine. I could not have spoken to her. Ennison,” she said. He forced her arm back, away, stretching it out to keep the weapon at bay. 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 stood up before him, smiling faintly. .
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