The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. 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. ” He said. She wanted to think. Pistols and pictures? Now it fair goes agin’ me nature to act rough with a lady, but you’ll come along of me at once.
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