His eyes swept down and Melusine felt the quiver at her lips where he gazed. She had lost it. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair.
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