Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. “I have not quarrelled with her. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. That is what my mother used to call me.
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