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 threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. “I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. ” “Why not?” she asked quietly. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. .
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