She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. ‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled.
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