‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes.
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