Chapter Eleven Melusine’s limbs nearly gave way beneath her. Firmly built, as it was, the bridge creaked in such a manner with their contending efforts, that Abraham durst not venture beyond the door, where he stood, holding the light, a horrified spectator of the scene. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. You are not my husband.
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