It was red and chapped. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Recovering herself, Melusine tucked the weapons out of sight, down into the deep holsters hidden under the petticoat of her riding habit, and went back into the house where Martha awaited her in some impatience. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them.
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