My heart fails me. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ ‘But looking for proof,’ Melusine uttered impatiently. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. Yield up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested.
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