It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. ‘Do you think I am afraid of a sword in the hand of a slip of a girl?’ For answer, Melusine lunged at him. He's a nice boy, a good student. He caught the smirk. Remember?’ ‘Parbleu,’ came from his still struggling victim. "I wonder," said Ruth. . . So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound.
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