But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. Melusine felt the calloused hand grasp around hers. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. I don't know whose brainless head it may be, but it'll do for my collection. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. The strong fingers of one hand secured both her wrists there, and Melusine found herself chest to chest with him as he threw off his hat, and began to pat at her petticoat, searching for tell-tale protrusions.
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