Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. She laughed a little contemptuously. Melusine felt the calloused hand grasp around hers. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further. He saw that she was tense.
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