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. She had trembled on the verge of such a resolution before, but this time quite definitely she made it. She was nestled under his bedspread. The will to live had returned. He gave you a poison. Always as black and bitter as gall. As soon as the latter beheld him, she uttered a loud scream, and fainted.
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