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More importantly, she had her wits. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured.
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