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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 don’t think that the rest of the people here like us very well, do they, Arthur, so we’re obliged to be friends. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “Let me think,” said Ann Veronica.
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