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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. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. The commissionaire smiled. “Shhh. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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