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. Oaths exploded like shells from a battery in full fire, accompanied by threats of direst vengeance against the individuals who had maltreated them. “My husband knows all. ‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them.
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