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. His literary instincts began to stir. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. He has taken more than one step towards the gallows already. Look somewhere else in life.
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