Two shots were fired, and presently the clashing of swords was heard below. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. ‘But she will not shoot you,’ Melusine told him flatly. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. Drawing the pay of life and then not living.
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