Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms.
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