There were no mourners. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. “All the time he is shouting and muttering. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. 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.
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