He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. She would never return to her father; that resolution was final. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders.
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