“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. If a certain kink in your sense of honour will not permit you to go to her as a lover, go to her as a comrade. 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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