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 looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly.
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