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Wood fancied he recognised. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad. ’ ‘Truly?’ asked Melusine, warmth lighting her bosom. To work then he went, and with wonderful industry filed off two of the iron bars. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. You will be—my wife.
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