She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. Well, this is OUR thing. 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.
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