As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. I want to be with you. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it.
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