She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. ’ ‘Back?’ Melusine put a hand to her aching temple. 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 turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber.
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