In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. The boat in which he rode was not overset. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility.
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