"Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. 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. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs.
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