“The ones Cariolus did for me. It was the grand nursery of vice. Cocking the gun. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. Gerald was instantly on the alert. The thought of them distressed her without subtracting at all from the oceans of happiness in which she swam. The reddish-haired young man contributed allusions to the Hegelian philosophy that momentarily confused the discussion. 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. It tore her apart. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. ‘Why?’ ‘Why take me to France? Why trouble himself with me, when so easily he could leave me to this Monsieur Remenham to keep?’ To Melusine’s instant suspicion, Martha bit her lip, drew a breath, and avoided her charge’s gaze.
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