She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. She further suspected that he might find a servant to dally with in the meantime, if he had not already. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. Smiling, the Chinaman gave the correct pronunciation. ‘Do not beg his pardon,’ intervened Melusine quickly, coming between them.
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