As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. . 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. Or perhaps my father once. I don’t care what else there is in the world. His literary instincts began to stir.
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