He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in. To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. For she needed him. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown.
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