Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. ‘You wound me to the heart, Melusine. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. From the beginning.
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