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. “I am going to America. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. He glanced up.
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