The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. ‘Deaf? Deaf? I’ll have you know, miss—’ ‘Do not have me know anything,’ interrupted Melusine crossly, and digging into her habit, produced the fateful dagger that had cut Gerald’s hand. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off.
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