“Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. 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. " "Treated you like a white man there, did they?" "Like a gentleman. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed.
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