“But I have no troubles. Kneebone," she added, drawing up her magnificent figure to its full height, and making the heavy cudgel whistle through the air, "look to yourself. "Another such attempt," said the latter, "and you are a dead man. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. I had a hunch. Something softened in Melusine’s chest.
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