Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom. A small voice greeted her, hissing. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. He turned, expecting to see his wife.
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