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. ’ Melusine looked from his coarse red features to the pistol, and froze inside as she recognised his intention. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. I know nothing about the girl, save what you have told me.
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