He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. A fortnight passed, then a month. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. You were delicious in concert, by the way. You cannot do a murder and expect that you will not be punished.
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