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The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. “What a little brick!” he murmured. It was Annabel who caught at the paper. 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. You will have lots of time on your hands. Still, one has to be reasonable. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. "Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. " "Oh, a shave and a clean suit will do a lot.
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