Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. ‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. His first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find that it still lived and was doing well.
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