. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again.
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