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Chapter Eight For an instant in the silence that followed, shocked into immobility, Melusine stared in horror at the body lying there so still. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. She’s a snob. I never forgive an injury. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. But a total stranger, a man you never saw twentyfour hours ago! It can't be thought of.
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