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. She remembered Taber's hat. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills.
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