His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. Although Melusine had taken care to trouble herself about the hand she had cut, and was glad to find it healing very well. 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. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. “I will make it possible,” he cried.
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