It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. His grip twisted her wrist. " "He couldn't help it, Ruth. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. We must never let your father know we went. He knocked on the doorframe. She's too pretty and unusual. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. ‘Why don’t you?’ Melusine frowned at him, grasping the dagger more firmly. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff.
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