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“Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. 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. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face.
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