Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. “In two days,” she reflected, “Mrs. ‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. Melusine flew after him, the sword held out before her and pointing directly at his retreating back.
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