” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. 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. The perfume was the only one she ever used. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers.
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