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. "I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. “How would you prevent it?” she asked. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him.
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