"Not the sort of stories young ladies should read. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. “Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. F. . ’ Melusine looked from his coarse red features to the pistol, and froze inside as she recognised his intention. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. He lit a cigarette and loitered about.
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